


A Special Sort of Magic

by plaisirparkway



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Begging, Breathplay, Choking, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, F/M, Mild Painplay, Use of the word whore, all things are consensual here, bdsm but very little negotiation sorry!, dom!Geralt, light exhibitionism, like super super mild, maybe slight ownership/paying for sex kink??, mild humiliation play, there is a safeword though!, x reader but no y/n
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:34:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23421007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plaisirparkway/pseuds/plaisirparkway
Summary: To be had like this was to chase destruction while cradled in a loving palm.Geralt needs information from the finest brothel in the kingdom. He finds you, instead.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Original Female Character(s), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Reader
Comments: 8
Kudos: 230





	A Special Sort of Magic

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first work for The Witcher and my first work on A03. Please do heed the tags! If you feel I've tagged in error or have other questions/concerns, let me know!

He looked wrong from the moment he entered the room. Surely he was made to leave his swords at the door. But he didn't need them to look dangerous.

His body was a weapon in and of itself. Broad. Thick with muscle and covered with armor. His white hair was pulled back from the planes of his face, and his boots made a heavy, definitive march as they met the wood floor, even through the cornucopia of bright carpets covering the floor.

(The carpets that had to be beaten and scrubbed every other day to keep up with the spilled wine, and the occasional spilled pleasure of the men who couldn’t make it to the private rooms.)

The night was early still, but the brothel was teeming, both in the lamplight and the shadow. People gathered in small groups of men playing cards, and women stroking bodies and egos.

His gaze moved quickly and efficiently. He didn’t seem to care about the way his presence caused a stutter in the din. Nor did he seem to notice the way he made the men grow edgy, and some of the women touch themselves, hands to throats, perhaps wondering just who he would end up with that night.

But if they wondered, you thought, they were fools. The man was not in the brothel for its amusements. Business was in his long stride, his square shoulders, the straightness of his back as he plowed his way through the crowd to you.

 _Thunk, thunk._ The sound of his boots landing in front of your little table. His gravel voice ground out your name: a question.

“You found me,” you said, a teasing lilt to your voice.

He hummed and from a pouch at his side, produced a coin, sliding it onto the table with little aplomb.

“I’d like to speak with you.”

“You could at least sit and buy me a drink, Witcher.” You held up two fingers at the barkeep. The witcher’s eyebrows drew together fractionally. “Word travels fast,” you offered in explanation. Besides,” you said, waving a hand in the air. “White hair, brooding glare. That delectable body. Only a fool couldn't figure it out, Geralt of Rivia.”

His eyes briefly closed, as if in frustration. He eased himself onto the other side of the table. He didn’t fit. Yes, he could sit in the chair, but he made a mockery of its size. You tried not to let your eyes linger over the spread of his shoulders. A moment later, the ale was brought over by the barkeep himself, two cold mugs, brimming with froth.  
Geralt took his with a short nod, but had a long drink before speaking. “I understand you attend guests of the king.”

You knew the things they whispered about you. That you must’ve contained magic nestled between your thighs to have risen to where you were. But that only worked because while they were busy watching hips and breasts and eyelashes you were learning them.

Your gaze flicked down to the lone coin on the tabletop. “What brings you to town, Geralt of Rivia?”

He paused, looking at you, at the coin, and back to your face again. “A man has to make a living.”

“With the King’s coin, no less?”

“Even kings cannot abide monsters.”

Your eyebrows rose in a look of exaggerated surprise. “And he finds them among his guests?”

A look of something like amusement crossed Geralt’s face, and right behind it, his tone became very nearly sarcastic. “Where else would he look?”

You let out a genuine huff of laughter, and leaned back in your seat, finally sipping your own ale. “You make good company, Geralt of Rivia.”

He tilted his head slightly. His amber gaze stared back at you for a moment too long.

If there was magic to be found, it was in that moment. But it wasn’t the magic they accused you of it. It was that particular special magic that bound people up and twisted them together. You weren’t used to being the snare of that magic, the kind that human language could only manage to call attraction, or allure or lust.

All those words were failures.

His expression hardened once again. A of beer and the glitter of your laugh had soothed him, but he seemed to remember himself at the last moment. He reached into his pouch and produced a second coin. He slid it across the table, lining it neatly next to the first.

“What can you tell me about Lord Hananveil?”

You fought to keep your eyebrows from going up. That he has never brought a single woman a moment’s pleasure in his life, and such is why his wife's face is in permanent downturn.

So slowly, so that you wouldn't give up the game, you put your now-bare foot on the toe of his boot. You pressed lightly, lightly, and still his gaze snapped up to meet yours, a mix of wariness and slyness that made your pulse jump.

“What about him?” you said, finally.

“What can you tell me about his home? His lands?” He leaned one solid forearm down on the table.

As you spoke, you let your foot slide so softly, so languidly, up his calf. At the same time, you ran a finger around the edge of the coins, the slight grooves burning warm from friction. He jumped as your foot moved higher still. You toed the inner side of his knee, eyes fixed on the table.

“Well, witcher. I know that the maids ensure that his sheets smell of lavender and that the grass beside his lake is soft against one’s back.” You lifted your gaze, full of mock concern. “Does that answer your question?”

He grunted, and reached into his pouch. A third coin, another soldier in the line. This coin he dropped with a hard finger, tapping it. It wasn't a lot of money, per se. But it was...enough money. Most of the girls were smart enough to have waited for the second coin, but certainly would have coughed up information by the third.

He looked at you for a long, hard moment. It made the din of the room narrow and then blast into nothing. It was only the two of you at your tiny rickety table. Geralt pointed the coin again, before withdrawing back to his side of the table. “Do not give me another answer designed to annoy or distract.”

You made a sweet, soft noise, your foot creeping higher, and his expression threatening to darken to a scowl. “Does the thought of me on my back move you to distraction?”

Those eyes flashed bright, something seizing him. “Is this not what you want?” he asked, pointing again at the gold on the table.

His mistake was the emphasis on you. He didn’t mean you. He meant women like you. Women in your profession.

You stuck your tongue out to wet your lips, and watched as his gaze followed, honey dripping over your mouth. “Oh, yes, it’s true. Whores do deal in coin.” You let your foot wind its way up his thigh until you found him, shockingly hard and straining against his pants, making his body tense as you stroked. “And good whores deal in pleasures.”

You could tell he wanted to push away from the table, but the magic that hadn’t lifted yet (the magic that made you wet just looking at him, that had him in ready to lose control in his pants) It wasn’t yet ready to let him go.

“But,” you went on, “the very best whores deal in information.”

“And which kind are you?

“The smart kind.”

Quick as a lightning strike, you snatched up the coins and tipped the table, ale and all, into his lap. You were going to pay hell for the mess and the disruption. Evetta (whose real name was not Evetta) ran the most prestigious brothel in the kingdom, and she would not take kindly to brazen, backwoods tavern foolishness.

The tongue-lashing you would receive would be worth it for the last thing you saw. In the second before you disappeared and made your great escape, you glanced back to see the witcher, his face wet with ale, his expression waffling between incredulous fury and a grudging quirk of his lips.

****

Evetta was all bite and no bark. Well, maybe it would have hurt worse if you’d been one of Evetta’s less profitable girls. But the witcher was right: you did frequently entertain the sort of men who could call the King a friend.

“Why are you even here bothering me!” Evetta had ranted. “Get one of these fools to make you his mistress and be done with it!”

Yes, some fool like Hananveil, so you could spend the rest of your days well cared for but endlessly bored. And that was what Evetta always said, between teaching you the books and introducing you to vendors so she could pass the brothel on.

Summarily chastened, you sat to lunch with some of the other girls. The chatter immediately perked your ears.

“The witcher?” you asked. “He didn’t leave town?”

Carmina slid a warning glare to her friend, Lochna. “Don’t.”

“Not only did he not leave,” Lochna said, undeterred. “He had Carmina.”  
You looked at Carmina quickly. You did not want to be jealous of Carmina. Carmina who was your physical opposite in every way. Carmina who had gone to bed with the witcher and just mentioning it made her cheeks color.

“Tell her how it was,” Lochna went on, clearly delighted at the other woman’s embarrassment.

It was obvious that Carmina didn’t want to say anything more, but this sort of talk was so common amongst the women, it would have been more strange if she didn’t divulge details.

“He’s big,” Carmina said in a rush, “and at first...he was...rough. That kind of thing is really more what we send the men to you for,” she said, gesturing toward you with her chin.

Your cheeks grew hot. It was no secret all of the girls had their specialties. That your particular penchant for pain and roughness and other edgier delights made you an attraction for men of a certain kind. It was also why you usually had a bodyguard whenever you took a man with similar interests.

They usually played a pale version of the game, or merely craved violence, not realizing the real fun was somewhere in the middle.

“Did you tell him you don’t enjoy that sort of thing?” You asked, trying to appear casual, as you lifted a piece of fruit to your mouth.

Carmina nodded. “Yes.”

You let the silence stretch out long, trying not to appear too eager. “And?”

“He agreed, it didn’t anger him. He still….he still...he brought me four times!” Carmina said, spitting the words quickly again. Lochna and a couple of the other girls howled with laughter. Once was a rarity. Four had to be a lie. “Honest!” Carmina said, lapsing into her native countryside accent. “He barely put two words together, but--”

“Enough gossip!” Evetta said, which is what she usually said when the gossip offered nothing she could turn to her own advantage. Naturally, this only made the girls laugh harder as they got up to clear the meal.

***

That night, when the witcher turned up, at least you weren’t surprised. Nor were any of the other girls, who at least had the good sense to hide their wry smiles and stifle the little giggles.

He plunked down opposite from you at your table, his gaze steady underneath that strong brow. His body was...relaxed. Spread. Taking up more space than necessary.

“I’d like to ask you to supply the information you failed to last night. Despite,” he went on, lifting a finger in the air, “running off with my coin and leaving a mess.”

“The King’s coin,” you replied, evenly.

His response was a soft noise, neither confirmation nor denial. From that pouch of his, he produced five coins. Three of them in a line, just as the night before. Then two more, sitting separately, one stacked neatly atop the other.

“This,” Geralt said, running his finger atop the trio, “is for my questions.”

“How many questions?” you ask, running your fingertip along the coins too, if only to know the last thing to touch them was him.

He held up a hand. “And these,” he said, tapping the other two, “are for services.”

You raised your eyebrow, and let your fingers play over the coins a little longer, letting your fingernail wrap about one thin edge. His hand, massive and hot, clamped down on your wrist hard enough to hurt. Hard enough to rattle the coins, hard enough that the nearest table looked over.

Hard enough to make you grunt in surprise. But it was a sound snatched from somewhere behind your navel. Lower, perhaps.

He didn’t smile when your gaze flipped up to meet his. “If you mean to pull any of the foolishness you did last night, I will catch you this time.”

That was the part where he should’ve let go. Where he’d proven his point. Instead, he squeezed harder. Kept the pressure until his hand became a manacle. Until you could no longer discern his fingers and the entire thing was one great, bruising grip. Until your skin broke out in goosebumps, chased by a flush of heat, your nipples hardened to the point of pain.

When he did release your wrist after another moment, you resisted the urge to snatch it back. It might bruise. You couldn’t be sure.

You hoped so.

“Two coins,” you manage, your voice only rasping a little, “does not begin to cover a night’s rate.”

As if you’d never spoken he said, “Undo your laces.”

That time you didn’t have the good sense to play it cool. “Here?” you asked, voice straining.

He cast that gaze of his around, full mouth slightly uplifted. You would not have been the only topless or nearly topless woman in the room. But it’d been a long time since you were one of these girls, getting naked where anyone could see.

“You think that two coin is enough for me to do that?” You asked, fighting to keep your voice coy.

His lips tipped down in the corners with a slight nod, as if to agree. “Perhaps not. But I don’t think you’ll do it for the coin. I think you’ll do it because I’ve told you to. Because I want to get a look at those teasing little nipples.”

His words startled you to silence, your heart racing wild inside the cage of your bones. Your trembling fingers lifted to your laces. Geralt leaned back in his chair, his face flat, big arms crossed over his chest.

“Quickly,” he said, and you obeyed, fingers moving on muscle memory alone, sliding the supple leather from the holes keeping your bodice together, a seductive bit of skin, sliding into cleavage, bleeding into full nudity. The sides of your bodice offered very little reprieve, the valley between your breasts bared to him.

He didn’t have to stretch far. His hands radiated warmth and for a minute your mind was starved of every thought save touch me touch me touch me, but he was careful not to do just that, touching only the dress itself, as he parted the bodice further, truly baring you to the light and the air. Though it seemed impossible, your nipples hardened more under his gaze, drawing to points that made you yearn for him.

“There,” he said, his satisfied tone of voice in competition with the frown on his face.

“Does it please you, sir?”

It was the only way to wrestle back the control you didn’t actually want. It made you burn with wanting to say that sir and mean it, not with that practiced flirty drawl of a working girl, but with earnestness, to be met with his approval.

He blinked, long and slow. “It would please me more if you touched them.”

Your fingers jerked where they lay on the table, fighting against the sudden tip of power in his favor.

He wasn’t having it. “Now, girl.”

You went liquid between the legs. Your hands lifted to cup your breasts. They felt almost like a stranger’s, hot and shaking against your skin. You caressed them like a lover, like you wanted him to.

“Pinch them.”

It occurred to you then that people might’ve been watching this show, that people watched shows like this all the time between these walls, that people were watching you touch yourself because he said so and it made a cacophony of need and confusion stir in your belly.

When your fingers finally closed around your nipples, he said, sharply. “Hard. The way I would. Don’t fuck around.”

You bit your lip because you would not do it. You would not moan for him. Not here, not this way. He waved a hand in the air. “Ah, never mind it.”

With quick, quick movements, he snatched up the three coins and pushed the other two across the table.

“Goodnight,” he said, rising from the table.

“Wait,” you said, and he must’ve been listening, paying such close attention because your voice was scarcely above a whisper and yet, he paused. “How did you know?” you croaked.

His expression shifted to the closest you’d ever seen it come to pleased. “The other girls whispered about what you enjoy. That we might...suit. And,” he said, leaning against the table, pushing himself into your space, “the feisty ones are often in need of taming.”

He turned and went out, leaving you there to catch your breath.

****

That next morning at breakfast, the girls did not tease Carmina. There was no reason. The witcher had not taken Carmina to bed. Or Lochna. Or any of the girls who’d flitted about and hoped to bed the man who promised so much pleasure.

There was still much gossip. All about how the witcher had taken on the great beast hidden in Hananveil’s lake. No, the great beast kept, in Hananveil’s lake, and occasionally deployed like his personal minion.

That night, when the witcher walked in, he did not survey. His long, sure stride went directly to you. Your body, (traitorous, beautiful thing) immediately tightened upon seeing him.

“Have you a room here?” his voice was even, neither loud nor quiet, simply matter of fact.

“Follow me,” you said, rising from the table so quickly, you tripped over your skirts for just a second. Gone was the coy creature, whose entire purpose was to part men from their money. It was as though all of that had been replaced with need, and just that. It was so strong, there wasn’t even space for embarrassment, or shame.

Your body was only thinking of Carmina’s wistful expression as she said _he brought me four times_.

You didn’t keep a proper room where the other girls met. You were, after all, being groomed to take over for Evetta. Just as he hadn’t really made sense at your table, he didn’t really fit going up the narrow stairs, and when you turned to look back at him, his big body blotted out the light from below, and his eyes burned bright. You quickened your step, that special blend of fear and excitement making you light on your feet.

Your room was not designed for pleasures. You never took men there. You let them treat you to lavish estates, well-appointed rooms in some of the larger villages. But this place belonged to you. Paper and books covered every surface, your narrow desk pressed against a square of glass marauding as a window. Your unmade bed was covered in an array of brightly colored blankets, but getting both of you in it was going to be a tight fit.

Probably not the only one.

He kicked the door closed behind him, a slight rattle on the hinges. He cast his gaze around. You let him look, while you quickly lit the few candles you used for light, but came back to him, waiting. Barely a moment passed before Geralt grabbed you by the upper arms and hauled you to him.

Gods that face. That intense brow, those eyes, citrine stones inside a marble expression. A mouth too lush for a face so serious.

When he spoke his voice was lust, poured over coarse sand. “If you would like this stop. If you would want me to leave, you may say ‘Hananveil.’” You couldn’t help it--you snorted, and a flash of amusement crossed his face. “But if you say it,” he went on, “mean it. I would not like to hear another man’s name. Am I understood?”

“Yes.”

He gave you a slight shake. “Yes?”

“Yes, sir.” There was no controlling how breathy you sounded, how so entirely fucking artless with want.

He pulled you closer still, the warmth of his body evident even with your clothes between you. You lifted your face to his, mouth parted in silent begging.

His lips were soft, barely touching yours at first, a ghost of sensation against your skin. How could such little touch could leave you tingling, leave you sparking, leave you burning?

And then the kiss became real. You weren’t sure you’d ever been kissed like that before--ever been tasted before. His mouth was so insistent, so demanding of your attention that the rest of the sensation of him touching you--arms sliding down your shoulders, curving down your sides, cupping your ass--became background noise, nothing against the blaring horn that was his kiss.

You swore when he pulled away, and he took the opportunity to tip your head back and take another kiss, somehow softer, and more intense, leaving you dizzy long before he stopped again, turned you around and clapped a hand to your ass, a bright, brutal, buzz of pain even through your clothes.

“Go,” he said shortly. “Bend over and lift your skirts. I want to see what you’ve been teasing me with.”

You started toward the bed before pausing, beginning to turn back to him. “Teasing you--”

His fingers fisted in the hair at the nape of your neck, making you yelp--making you wet--and then he yanked you back, to hiss in your ear.

“Yes, teasing.” The way he spoked called to mind the expression he must have had on his face: lips curled back slightly over his teeth, eyes dark and hooded. “Do you think I couldn’t smell your cunt the moment I sat at your table?”

On legs like a newborn horse, you stumbled to the bed, pressing your red-hot face to the coverings. You moved slowly. It wasn’t meant to be more of the teasing of which he’d accused you, but time stretched on for eons as you rucked your skirts up and up and up, and over the curve of your ass.

It would’ve been a comfortable temperature, but your wetness slicked down your thighs and grew cool as you stood there, exposed to the room.

“Up on your toes,” he rumbled and you fisted your hands in the covers as your rose, ass lifted higher.

You could hear him moving about. Walking. Pacing? With your face pressed to the bed, it was almost as if he was everywhere.

“Tell me,” he said, “do you lie here, in your bed at night and touch yourself?” You turned toward the wall so that your mouth wasn’t muffled and answered him. The yes from your lips lingered a long time before he said: “Did you think of me?”

You groaned, shifting your weight from foot to foot. “Yes.”

“Show me,” Geralt said shortly.

“I might have been in a slightly different position.”

The sting of another blow against your ass ignited the early pain: kindling to fire. You hadn’t known he was so close, but there was no denying now the smell of him, the heat of him.

“I didn’t ask for your smart mouth. I told you to show me how you touch your sweet cunt when you think of me.”

Your cheeks burned anew, but your calves began to burn as well with the strain of keeping on your toes. It was only exacerbated by spreading your legs so you could wedge a hand between your body and your bed.

You’d forgotten how sweet it was to hurt for someone else.

The hair between your legs, at the nexus of your body was sodden. Sticky. The noise of your fingers parting you seemed to echo in the room, undercut only by the sounds of your breathing. And his, you realized. There was a great heaving breath behind you, and a rustling that suggested he was undressing.

“Let me watch!” You exclaimed, suddenly, pausing between your legs. “If you’re taking off your clothes, I want to watch.”

You thought perhaps he might have laughed but couldn’t be certain without proof. “Do you?”

“Yes,” you murmured. “What else do you imagine I was thinking of?”

He inhaled, sharply. “Stand up. Undress. Then in the bed, on your back.”

You were up again before he finished talking, turned to face him as you undid your closed laces. He was scarcely undressed. A belt with pouches and other adornments hung interestingly from his fist, before he tossed it onto the bed with an impassive expression. His shirt was open, exposing chest hair you wanted to rub yourself against like a cat. His pants were slightly undone as well, and you ached: wanting to take the lead and touch him and wanting to follow directions exactly.

He waited, arms crossed, but you knew he wouldn’t wait for long. You undid the dress so it could pool at your feet and when you were bare before him, he made no secret of looking you over. He’d seen so much of you already, but not at once and he drank the sight of you like a thirsty traveller.

You backed toward the bed again, sitting and staring for a moment before you slid back, head against the pillow.

Geralt of Rivia did not make a show of undressing. It wasn’t necessary. His body made you breathless, muscle and veins spread across his broad expanse. His curled fists made yours seem childish in comparison. The sheer size of his thighs made you want to linger, to sink your teeth in and taste.

He also didn’t need to brag about the size of the cock between his legs, big enough to hurt if he didn’t use it right. Big enough to hurt even if he did. Thick and long and made for making your body pulse with excitement.

Naked, save the silver medallion around his neck, his white hair pulled back to make those features stark against the light. He was a vision.

You spread your legs in invitation. With a smirk he crawled into bed between them, his fingers braced on each of your knees. It was no exaggeration to say you wanted everything. You wanted him slow and you wanted him fast and you wanted him to split you in half and you wanted him to be easy with you.

To be had like this was to chase destruction while cradled in a loving palm.

“Geralt, please.”

He hummed. “You beg nicely.”

You’d beg more if he’d ask, until you’re raw in the throat and worse. He must have read it on your face because that smirk widened. He didn’t say anything though, as he leaned down to stroke your breast, rolling the hard peak with surprisingly gentle fingers.

“Why did you stop me yesterday?” you asked, running a hand from his knuckles and up his forearm just to feel the coarse hair there against your skin.

“Because I knew you wouldn’t do it right,” he said and squeezed.

“Fuck!” you cried, gripping his arm tightly.

“Does it hurt?” he asked, eyes light.

He was teasing you. You tossed your head, thrashed, cried out and gave yourself over to the pain, which grew worse as he released your nipple and slapped the hard peak with a sharp hand. Better, he repeated it with the other nipple until you were suitably mewling and gasping and begging.

“Touch me!” you said finally.

“Where?” he asked, bending his mouth to your abraded nipple, lapping and sucking until you gasped some more. He lifted his mouth, and it was already a little swollen. “Tell me where and maybe I’ll consider it.”

Geralt made you say it one hundred, one thousand times as he kissed and sucked and bit you, until you were begging to touch him instead.

Only then did he take pity on you. He eased one, just one, finger inside of you and it slipped so easily, sank so deeply. Your hips bucked looking for more, more, please more. With an unkind smile, he slid the finger from you and to his mouth.

The fresh flush of arousal through you was superfluous. But he lowered his hand again and pressed two fingers inside you. You were so wet, your arousal was enough to bring his hand back glistening. It mingled with himself to slide over his cock making it shine in the soft light.

Watching him stroke himself made you hot, made you wild with wanting. It seemed unfair that he got touch himself all the time when you yearned to take him inside you.

“Next time,” he said, nestling closer, “I’ll go slower with you. Next time I’ll taste your cunt.”

“Next time?” you echoed cheekily, if weakly. “You haven’t arranged payment for this time.”

“Hmm.”

You couldn’t tell whether the joke had angered him or not, but that stony expression was right back in place. He dropped his cock so that the fat length of it smacked against you and you cried out at that too.

He stretched to one side to retrieve his pouch. He yanked it open with deft fingers and poured coins into his hand. Many coins.

Geralt let them rain down onto your stomach, your tender breasts. The silver and gold danced together like sunlight on a rainy day. They splattered against you in just such a mixture, half cold, half warm, spinning in the firelight.

“I’ve more,” he said quietly, when the coins finished bouncing.

“I don’t want your money,” you whispered, lying there, surrounded by enough coin to maybe go away and pretend you’d never heard of Evetta or Hananveil or your jealousy for Carmina.

The breath rushed from your lungs as he pressed the flat of his hand to your stomach. The warmth of it revealed every ridge and bump of his fingers, the slope of his palm. Even stretched out, the fleshy mound of Venus was unmistakable. Your flesh filled the hollows of his hand as he slid it up your body, the heel digging in, clearing a path through silver and gold.

“I know you don’t,” he said casually, as that hand slid between your breasts, up your sternum to make a band at your throat. His hand tightened as he used the other to pump himself. “You want to get your slutty little cunt fucked. You want,” he said, squeezing tighter as he slid in that first, back-arching inch, “to show you how I’ll own you. How I’ll own this pussy I’m inside, and the pleasure I’ll bring you and your very fucking breath.”

He shook his tightening hand a little to prove his point. “Snap your fingers if you need me to stop.” He gave you a glower. “You’re no use to me dead.”

“Fuck you,” you said with a laugh at his dark little joke. That laugh turned into a silky moan as he rocked against you.

“You’re going to, girl,” he said so flatly, that you almost missed that was a joke too.

It took him a long, agonizing time to work into you. He watched the entire time, watched what you could only feel: his cock, too big, too fucking big, parting you and stretching you, both of you broken into a sweat with the effort of taking him. Of him taking you.

He wouldn’t let you watch, your face locked in place by his pressing, bracing hand. The first thrust sent you out of your mind. He wasn’t going to hurt you if he didn’t have to, but it was so much, so fucking full and he clearly had no intention of being careful either, once he knew you could take all of him.

Another thrust then, two, then three and he was really fucking you, driving into you, upturning everything you ever knew about pleasure and pain as his fingers pressed hard, driving out thought alongside oxygen. You’d been reduced to just this: just the building between your legs the driving pace of him fucking you, his skin clapping against yours in a vicious, overwhelming press for more, more, more.

“Next time,” he said, his voice gone--somehow--more hoarse, “I’ll turn you over and fuck you from behind. I’ll cover your mouth, so you’ll go quiet while I use you. But I want to hear you now.”

He released your throat and the rush, the fucking rush was too much, it was bringing you too close, too fast. You wanted more from this, you’d been teased for too long for it to end so quickly.

“Geralt, please,” you said, pressing your heels to the bed, running from the ruinous pleasure he was going to bring.

He slowed suddenly, grabbing your hips in his hands, thrust turning to a grind, finding your clit with each pass of his hips. You gasped, fingers curled into the sheets and into fists and around his forearms.

“This time,” Geralt said, “I want you loud. I want you screaming. I want my name on your lips so that all the fools listening know that I’ve had you and fucked you and made you like this.”

His name was a ceaseless babble from your lips. You needed his permission to tip over, to finally find the bliss he promised from that first moment he walked into the brothel and said your name.

“Yes,” he said, sounding like a goddamn animal in his own right and nodded.

There were no words. It was a glass shattering inside you, a knot finally being pulled tight, a fire roaring to life. And somehow he fucked you harder still, chasing his own pleasure until his body tightened, a dark, rumbling noise clawing up from his throat as he exploded inside you.

He hovered over you, and for the first time his eyes were soft. The last sweet dark yellow of a day before darkness swallowed it up. He managed to pitch himself over to one side, to save you from the weight of him you supposed. It required you to nestle close, given the size of your bed.

It was a long time before either of you could speak, before you realized that you had coins stuck to your sweaty skin, that perhaps you should clean up where the two of you mingled, making a wet spot in the sheets. You did neither.

Instead you said, “one,” with a giggle, before slapping a hand over your mouth.

The witcher’s eyes were already closed. “Explain.”

As you spoke, his fingers drifted to find your hair, running blunt tips over the surface. “Carmina. She said that you brought her four times.”

He heaved a great sigh, still not opening his eyes. “She miscounted then.” You stopped laughing, saying his name as a question. You could have sworn that his mouth tipped up in a smile. “I thought she might’ve passed out after the last two.”

“You joke,” you said, burbling on another laugh. “Don’t tease. Clean up your money and go.”

Geralt sighed again, propping one bent arm behind his head. The second sigh was more contented. “That was quite a list of things I’d like to do to you. I think it would take me awhile to work through them. Hours certainly. Maybe even days. No, I think I’m just where I ought to be.”

“The witcher, bewitched,” you said, sure he could hear the smile in your voice.

He grunted, once, quietly, and fell promptly into sleep. Seconds later, so did you.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! 
> 
> For more nonsense, I'm also plaisirparkway on tumblr, and looking for new people in the fandom to follow!


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